


Memories We Made

by frau_kali



Series: 30 Weeks of Cherik [3]
Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Canon Compliant, Charles-centric, Depression, Flashbacks, George Orwell - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mansion Fic, Memories, Mentions of Suicide, Nineteen Eighty-Four, Poor Charles, debates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 07:52:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3642501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frau_kali/pseuds/frau_kali
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, often, Charles hated this house. Sometimes, often, it felt more like a prison than a real home. It wasn't the walls, or the look of the place, but the <i>memories</i>.</p>
<p>Short, angsty fic set between XMFC and DoFP.</p>
<p>(For week 3: memories.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memories We Made

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for being so late with this one, getting it in just under the wire here. It's been a rough week, and I had originally started another smut fic that was going to be for this week, but it'll have to wait. The fic posted here is a few months old, originally written (but not posted) when I was going to do this challenge daily instead of weekly. I've tweaked it some.
> 
> A lot of the headcanon here is similar to what's in [If You Loved Me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3254516/chapters/7094735) since this was written before that. 
> 
> And a thousand apologies if I've gotten any of the details about _Nineteen Eighty-Four_ wrong, as it's been years since I read it, though I did check Wikipedia. Other things that Charles mentions about Mr. Orwell also came from Wikipedia.
> 
> **Trigger warnings for alcoholism, depression, brief mentions of suicidal thoughts on Charles' part, and Charles' unhappy childhood.**

Sometimes, often, Charles hated this house. Sometimes, often, it felt more like a prison than a real home. It wasn't the walls, or the look of the place, but the _memories_.

He hadn't had a happy childhood, Raven had been the only real bright spot in it, and this house was littered with memories of the two of them curling up together when she was afraid—and he was pretending not to be--during thunderstorms or when Kane chased after them both. There was all the times they'd hid in the library, when he'd read to her at night because she couldn't sleep. The books he found fascinating were often the ones she found very boring, a fact that kept right up until his Oxford days. He would, of course, still read her actual stories, though. She had loved _The Hobbit_ , he remembered, and it was partly out of childhood nostalgia that he'd purchased her a copy of _Fellowship of the Ring_ when it was released in 1954, while they were in England.

When they'd come here in 1962, after the CIA facility had been attacked, Charles found that the only memories of this place he really savoured were those of him and Raven. She hadn't been wrong when she'd said the hardships of this place had been softened by her.

He was sitting in the library now, slouched on one of the couches with a glass of scotch in hand. Hank was gone for the day, working in a lab in town, which Charles had insisted he didn't have to do, but Hank had wanted to. He supposed seeing him like this, day after day, was probably not doing much for his friend's (his _only_ friend now, with everyone else gone) general mood and disposition. It didn't help that lately Hank had been insistent that Charles drank far too much and did little else. He'd said he wanted to work on a version of the serum that wouldn't effect Charles' abilities, that Charles should really ease back on the drug some, but Charles would have none of it.

He couldn't stand all the voices, the thoughts that he swore at one time he was able to keep out, but he couldn't now. And Cerebro? God, that was another nightmare altogether. Besides, Charles wanted no temptation to reach out and touch Raven's mind (she was gone, she didn't want to see him or she would've come back here), or, god forbid, Erik's.

Erik.

Charles shuddered, downing the remainder of the glass as his eyes fell on the seat by the library's sizable window.

While Raven was giving the others a tour, Erik had found Charles here, alone, looking through various documents that he'd fetched from the study. 

“Your inheritance?” Erik asked, with that same dry tone he'd used earlier. “How could have possibly survived with so much money, and probably servants and--”

Charles shoved the papers aside and glared at him. “Yes, Erik, I wanted for nothing, and had everything. If you want to believe that.” The words had been meant to come out a snap, but Charles' voice had faltered partway and just became sad. This was not the first time Erik had said something about his supposedly privileged upbringing, it had come up months earlier, before they were together, on their cross country recruitment trip. Erik had apologized then, too, but Charles that was before Erik knew he'd lived in this house. And he had every reason to think Charles' life had been better than his.

Because, well, it had been. Of course it had, compared to Erik, Charles had an easy childhood. But still not a happy one.

“Charles...” Erik started, his face falling. He shifted, then: “You never told me about your childhood.”

“No, my friend, I didn't.” Charles shook his head, but Erik was already sitting down beside him, one hand covering his. He looked expectant, but didn't prompt Charles any further.

It took him a few moments, but Charles eventually told Erik everything. He told him about his father's death, his mother's neglectful absence and how she'd married a man who only cared about her money. He told him about how Raven was his only friend during this time, about keeping her secret from his mother and step-father. And he told him about Kane, the step-brother who endlessly tormented Charles, venting all his anger about not getting his father's approval onto Charles. And then how, in the sad unfortunate aftermath of the whole tale, when Kane had left and his step father was dead, Charles's mother, now hardly ever sober, had sent him off to boarding school in England. Raven, of course, had followed him.

When it was over Erik's surface thoughts were a whirl of anger and sadness and above all regret for the callous things he'd said.

“Charles, I'm sorry,” he spoke softly, words he didn't say very often, as he pulled Charles close to him.

“It's alright,” Charles replied, leaning into him, “I don't have so many good memories of this house, I'm afraid.” Though Raven had, of course, made it better, many of his happiest memories of her were also from when they got to England. In fact, his life as a whole had gotten much better at that point. Though the idea of parents who loved him enough to spend time with him and offer him something beyond cold neglect or (in his step father's case) a few approvals for doing well in school was something Charles knew he would never have.

Erik stirred him from his sad reverie by sliding one arm under Charles' legs and lifting him into his arms.

“ _Erik_!” Charles cried out in surprise, nearly wiggling out Erik's grip before he clung onto him. Thankfully, Erik only took him to the window seat, where he sat down and pulled Charles into his lap. They took a moment to arrange themselves, until they were both cuddled together there, looking out at the setting sun.

“I want you to remember this, Charles,” Erik said, sliding his fingers through Charles' hair. “I want us to make you new memories of this place.” And with that, he'd tilted Charles' head up and kissed him, a motion that soon had Charles turning so he was straddling Erik's lap, their lips working together until the whole thing became something far, far less innocent.

After that Erik had made a point to do things that he knew Charles would remember, happy memories meant to replace all the bad ones that had come before.

Only now they all haunted him, every single one like a knife twisting in his gut that only an unhealthy amount of alcohol could erase. Sometimes he indulged in that, but today he didn't particularly feel compelled to drink so much he passed out. And though he saw no end to this, either, he also felt far too cowardly to just end his own suffering. He had considered it, really, particularly when he looked around and saw something that made some happy memory of Erik resurface, or when he thought of how, briefly, the quiet halls of this house had been full of laughter and eager young minds determined to learn of their abilities, and how badly all of that had failed. But there was some reason he couldn't bring himself to do anything beyond contemplating it. Probably just human nature, he supposed. Even he, with all his misery, didn't want to die.

He reached for the bottle, frowning when he found it empty. Getting up, he headed for the door, moving past the bookshelves. There were yet more memories there, reminders of the two or three times when Erik had pressed him against the shelves, lifting his legs around his hips and swallowing his moans with kisses.

When he glanced over at the adult fiction books, another memory, clear as day, came to mind.

Charles had discovered Erik with the mansion library's copy of Orwell's _Nineteen Eighty-Four_ , a book Erik said he'd read when he was learning English many years before.

“I found it terribly depressing, actually,” Charles said, “but I suppose you think he was making some accurate comment about human nature.”

“Well, he certainly does illustrate how easily led and controlled people are,” Erik replied. He was looking at Charles intently, like nothing else mattered in the world right now besides the two of them and this latest discussion. Charles always felt like Erik pulled him in during these moments.

“I doubt that was his intent; he was a socialist, you know. He may have turned on Russia but he never stopped believing in the ideals of socialism. He was writing against tyranny, and the world he created is one where those in power keep the masses from being politically aware.” He couldn't help but smile then. “You always find themes that aren't there, my friend.”

“Just because he never intended it doesn't prevent me from interpreting it that way.” As usual Erik was stubborn as ever. “And that the Party's control rests on keeping the masses ignorant doesn't invalidate my point.”

Well, perhaps not, but then again Charles had never cared a great deal for the novel, he'd read it only once, and he had a feeling Erik had read it more than that. Still, he found some bright spots in it. “And what about love?”

Erik's eyebrows shot up, and Charles shifted. “Winston loved Julia, she made him happy, he risked his own safety to be with her, and maybe he wouldn't have gone to O'Brien about overthrowing the Party if he'd not started his affair with her. Even if the ending was dreadful, doesn't it still say something about what love inspires in us?” By the time he'd finished saying it, he knew he wasn't really, entirely, talking just about the book anymore.

“You're very sentimental, Charles,” Erik said, with something Charles could only term 'contemptuous admiration'; he knew how much his friend disliked his idealism, but how at the same time he sometimes wished Charles was right, but refused to believe he ever could be.

“You seem eager to dismiss the ending,” Erik went on, “when Winston's love is used against him, to break him, and he betrays Julia to save himself.” Something passed through Erik's face then, and Charles frowned slightly. He noted how Erik had omitted the part where the betrayal was mutual, and knew Erik also was no longer talking exclusively about the novel.

“You believe love is weakness, Erik?” He tried not to look as hurt as felt by that notion.

Erik took his hand and put it to his heart, all his affection, love, and desire shoved toward Charles suddenly. “No, not always,” he whispered. “I love you, and that's not going to change. We're stronger together.” _But I know I'm going to disappoint you._ The thought floated across the surface of Erik's mind, and Charles knew it was unbidden, not something he was meant to hear, but sometimes Erik thought such things too loudly.

He had no words to say to that, so he just brought both his hands to Erik's face, pushing his love toward the other man, as if he might wrap it around him like a warm, comforting blanket. Standing on his toes, he leaned up to kiss Erik softly, trying to push away his friend's doubts.

Heh. Funny how ready he was to believe in Erik's goodness back then, how easily he thought and even said he knew Erik would never let him down, that Erik was not a monster. What an idiot he'd been.

In the kitchen Charles found another bottle of scotch in the fridge. Indeed, the fridge contained little more than a myriad of alcoholic beverages, along with some eggs and milk from Hank's attempts to make him eat actual food. He took the bottle from the fridge, opening it so he could pour himself another glass.

The kitchen, of course, was no better. Here, too, he remembered all those mornings when Erik had cooked him breakfast, or the few times they'd both found themselves down here before bed. On one occasion Erik had pressed him against the counter and kissed him hard, before Charles had asked him, breathlessly: “Are we going to do this in every room of the house, Erik?”

Erik seemed amused, biting at his earlobe. “Why not? I did say we would make you a lot of new, happy memories, didn't I?”

And Charles had only laughed, thanking him, thinking him so wonderful in that moment before he'd surrendered and let Erik take him apart just as generously and thoroughly as he always did. In that one week, Erik had gone out of his way to give Charles all the love he could, all right up until the night before Cuba when they'd had that argument that left their chess game unfinished and almost had them both sleeping in different rooms that night.

That chess game was still unfinished, still sitting in the study where they'd left it. Charles would've avoided the study if he thought it would help any, because there were memories there beyond count; nightly chess games and amicable debates about philosophy and the future of mutant-human relations, or simple discussions about literature or how the students were doing. They'd made each other laugh, and Charles really believed then more than ever that he was giving Erik exactly what he needed, that he could save the man he loved from his own self-loathing.

He'd been wrong, of course, and Charles had found out in the worst way possible that Erik really was the monster he'd always called himself. Erik, who had taken his sister from him and abandoned him, broken, on a beach with no way out and a fleet of ships who'd just tried to murder them all. Charles had known Erik was going to leave him, had realized it the second he'd uttered the words “I'm sorry, my friend, but we do not.” But he hadn't quite expected Erik to not even order the teleporter to get them all to safety, or at least to a hospital.

Erik had taken his legs, broken his heart, and left him alone when he'd needed him the most. That Charles knew he was lying to himself about hating Erik, about not still loving him and the life they might've had, only made it that much worse.

Damnit. He slumped against the counter, downing his glass in one go. There were just too many memories here, and they all hurt too much. The reminder of how happy he'd been when he and Erik had made them only made things worse.

He should just go to bed, he resolved, even if it was only six. He'd fall asleep sooner rather than later if he did.

He wasn't sleeping in the room he'd inhabited here ten years ago, not anymore. That room was by far the worst of them all and he couldn't step into it without recalling the myriad of nights when he and Erik had made love, or curled up together and continued whatever discussion they'd been having downstairs, usually before beginning more intimate activities. Charles had told Erik his plans for the school while they'd been entangled in that bed, had shared with him a vision that Erik had called a noble endeavour, even though he was skeptical about humanity interfering in it.

So, no, sleeping in one of the unoccupied rooms was usually better for him. He'd brought only a few things from the other one, things that didn't remind him of Erik. And the picture of Raven, too, which sat on his bedside table now. Charles did not blame her for leaving him, but he could still blame Erik for taking her.

As he wandered out into the foyer, bottle and glass in hand, he stopped when Hank opened the front door. Right. It was six, Hank was off work now. Normally Charles would've felt his mind coming up the driveway, but he was thankful he no longer could. Hank's pity for him only made him feel worse.

“Hey, Charles,” Hank said, putting his briefcase down and holding out a brochure. He made no comment about Charles' appearance, or the drink in his hand, clearly used to it all by now. “There's a talk about genetics and mutations going on at New York University tonight, I thought maybe you might want to go?”

Charles glanced down at the brochure, but did not take it. Hank had done this before, of course, tried to make Charles leave the house with offers of things going on outside. The catalyst was probably the day Hank came home and found Charles curled up on the bed of his old room, clutching at one of the turtlenecks Erik had left behind. Hank had mentioned some play going on in the city, something Charles could not remember the name of. All of Hank's suggested outings were, Charles noted, in no way centred around alcohol.

And he could not find the slightest bit of interest in any of them, or the motivation or energy to leave the house. Even if there was going to be drinking, he still knew he wouldn't care. This place was like a prison, with all the memories, but he didn't want to leave it, either. There was nothing out there for him.

He just wanted to sleep, and dream of happier things.

“Yes, thank you, Hank, but I'm just going to go to bed. Go and enjoy yourself,” Charles said. He turned and walked up the stairs, leaving his only friend alone in the foyer.


End file.
